


The Spirits of the Dead

by Galadriel



Category: The Following
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Complicated Relationships, First Time, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, M/M, Murderers, Post-Canon, Presumed Dead, Reunions, Rough Sex, Touch-Starved, Touching, Undressing, Yuletide 2015, Yuletide Assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still in pursuit of Eliza and her faceless, nameless group of backers, Ryan's world has narrowed to revenge...and Joe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirits of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, thedevilchicken! I really do hope you enjoy this story. I very much wanted you to have something that would make you happy, and I am crossing all my crossables that I succeeded, at least in some small way. I feel the same way you do about The Following: it's beautiful, wonderful crack, and I'm so sad that it's over. I wanted to give you everything you asked for in your prompt, but I fear that's something for a far larger story. I hope what I have managed here is enough, at least for now.

"Ryan. Ryan. Rise and shine, darling. You can't sleep all day."

Ryan groaned as he curled tighter into himself. If he tucked his hands under his armpits and shifted closer to the vent, he could warm himself a few more fractions of a degree and maybe fall back asleep. The cardboard squelched uncomfortably under him, but if he screwed his eyes up tighter, he was sure he could block the sensation out.

"Honestly, Ryan, your choice of accommodations these days leaves something to be desired."

Ryan groaned, wishing he'd had the foresight to block his ears; he was sure he could hear the rustle of newspapers being brushed aside as his unwanted companion shifted closer. 

"And the smell! Are you sure you can't smell yourself? It's dreadful. Like a rotting bog or a decomposing body. And I know you know I'm not airily picking similes out of nowhere. For you, my love, I speak from experience. I know how much you prefer lived experience over the finer delights of high literature." 

"Go away." Ryan could taste the sleeve of his coat as he mumbled against his arm: cotton and motor oil, salt and stale sweat. 

"You know I can't do that. You know I _won't_ do that." Ryan could almost feel the breath on his neck, smell the minted toothpaste he himself hadn't bothered to use. "Up you get. You have more on your plate than holding down a piece of cardboard."

Ryan groaned, rolling onto his back, letting go of the hard-won warmth as he uncrossed his arms. The glass and steel building soared above him, a fortress of dark windows and unchecked ambition. He knew if he turned his head to the side and looked in its mirrored surface, he'd only see his failed self reflected back.

So he didn't.

Instead, he rolled fully onto his side and blinked at his other half. 

"You need to leave me alone."

Joe smiled. It was that entirely too smug, too self-satisfied smile that Ryan had come to loathe almost as much as he craved it. He was crouching beside Ryan, the bastard, looking down at him with the kind of expression that you reserved for small children or beloved pets who had just defecated on the rug. He looked _warm_. Worn black jeans, soft black sweater, the kind that beckoned you to reach out and _touch_. "That's not up to me." Joe wrinkled his nose, sitting back on his haunches. "Are you aware your breath gives the impression you've dipped yourself in a distillery?"

The pop-popping of Ryan's joints as he shifted and sat up was unnerving enough without his very own hallucination chattering on from beyond the grave. Ryan had spent more than enough time blending in with the drifters and homeless people who lived in and around the downtown core, more than enough time watching and waiting for Eliza to show her face. It was a thin hope, a bare thread that was unravelling bit by bit, day by day, but after a lot of back-channels and third-and-fourth-party conversations, he'd managed to shake one thing, and one thing only loose: the penthouse in this building had recently been sold to an exceptionally discreet businessman with particular tastes and even more particular connections that seemed to suggest he would be at least passingly familiar with Eliza's group.

That was all Ryan had to hold on to, and by now he was holding on by his fingernails; no suspicious deliveries to the front nor back, no solidly-built gentlemen with suits whose lines were ruined by concealed holsters, no Eliza, and not even the businessman himself. Admittedly, he had only the vaguest description of the last, but he had yet to see anyone other than a trickle of happy families and young professionals, all of them insulated from the lives of the people living at street level.

But this afternoon, this very afternoon, Ryan had recognized one of Eliza's lieutenants entering the building he'd spent far too much time loitering against, and that was enough encouragement to have him moving on from the street to the lobby. Confirmation that her organization had ties to at least one of the residents inside meant he was finally moving in the right direction.

"I once lit a man on fire after dousing him in absinthe." Joe sounded wistful to Ryan's ears, as if he were reliving a fond memory. "He went up quite nicely. ...No, don't say it. I know what you're thinking, but it was the cheapest kind of wormwood available. Terrible stuff. If I hadn't killed him, that rotgut would have. Doing him a favour, really. No one should drink on the cheap."

Struggling to his feet, Ryan picked up and tossed his makeshift rucksack over a shoulder. The fast patchwork job he'd done on the ripped corner a week ago seemed to be holding, even as the stitches were already starting to come away. If he circled around back, he could wait until the delivery trucks began to arrive in the pale light of dawn. From there, it would be nothing to slip inside the docks as the workers loaded and unloaded their crates. 

"Ah, la fée verte. Quite a tempestuous mistress, isn't she? Did you know, when you set her ablaze, she doesn't really burn green? Blue, like any other alcohol. A bit of a disappointment, that. Not as much as exactly how long it takes to burn a body, mind you."

"Shut up." He'd have to play it by ear once he breached the loading dock. If he was lucky, he'd be able to get past the steel doors and into the building beyond; he'd need a careless employee and a blind eye, but both of those things weren't that hard to secure. 

Joe cocked his head to the side. Although he was still sporting a look that made Ryan feel like a bug about to meet the judgement of a thumb, there was the faintest hint of hurt around his eyes. If he wasn't a full-blown hallucination, Ryan might actually feel bad for bruising his ego. 

Not that he felt much about it when Joe was still alive. With an ego that large, it was always bumping into things, and Joe _never_ took it well. As the great State of Virginia knew all too well. _Sic semper tyrannis._ "Death to tyrants" indeed. But what did it mean when the tyrant you helped kill wouldn't stay dead?

"Really, Ryan. Come now. If you didn't want me here, I wouldn't _be_ here. You're smarter than that."

"Shut. Up." Ryan rubbed at his forehead, willing away the rapidly growing _thump, thump, thump_ just behind his eyes. "And get out of my head."

Joe quirked an eyebrow. "Would that I could, my love. There isn't a great deal of square footage in that cranium of yours. I'd upgrade to a studio apartment or an elephant's skull in a heartbeat, but for some reason, I can't get a reputable realtor to answer my calls."

The front page of yesterday's news skittered across the ground like a wounded bird as Ryan shook out his legs, willing the feeling back into them. Physical pins and needles to go with the needles and pins his version of Joe continued to poke into him. He supposed it was only fitting. Just by chasing after Joe, refusing to give him up, he'd painted targets on so many people's backs. He'd caused so many deaths. He was lucky he still had Mike and Max. 

_No,_ he amended, he was lucky they were still alive. 

He didn't have them anymore. He didn't have anyone. 

Anyone except Joe.

One step forward, and his shoe caught the corner of a sodden newspaper, kicking it into life. He glimpsed part the headline as the paper flapped its flightless wings: "...RROLL: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A..." But before he could read a letter more, an errant breeze picked it up, tossing it higher, until it slapped against window, two stories up, and slid down to crumple lifeless on a ledge, a dead pigeon made of inky news.

"You're dead." For words so familiar to his lips, spoken as a ward, they still tasted unfamiliar, as if he couldn't quite fit their shapes to his mouth. "You're dead, Joe. You need to accept that."

Joe smiled, his eyes crinkling in pleasure, a teacher indulging a particularly stupid student. "Are you quite sure of that?" 

"I was there. I watched you die." 

"I suppose you did. But you won't let me stay dead, will you?" Joe cocked his head to the side, his expression one of pure delight. Even as a hallucination, he remained addicted to other people's pain. Even dead, he still fed off the living. 

Even in Ryan's head, he was every inch Joe Carroll.

"I must say, I did enjoy our drink together after my execution. Why haven't you taken me back to that bar, Ryan? It's as if you don't want to remember our first date."

"You're dead."

"Yes. You've mentioned that. And I suppose I am." Joe's smile widened, his eyes twinkling. "But are _you_ so certain?"

Ryan turned on Joe and began the trudge to the back of the building. A little luck, and he'd be inside in a moment. A moment more, and he'd be well on his way to digging up his own information; maybe even following his fraying thread straight to Eliza.

"You can't leave me, you know." Ryan didn't need to turn around; he could hear the sneer on Joe's face, smell the slightest hint of desperation underneath. "You couldn't leave me even if you wanted to!"

***

"You clean up well." 

Ryan sighed. He had hoped for a few quiet hours to himself, to infiltrate, gather information, and get out again without having to navigate the choppy, treacherous waters of reality and fantasy. Over the past six months, Joe had become a constant companion. He had thought Joe lived at the bottom of a bottle, each dark brown slosh heralding his coming, but no matter how much (or little) Ryan drank to forget, Joe popped up like a bad penny. Truthfully, Ryan was more than a little relieved when Joe showed up whether he was drunk or sober. Somehow, a slow meander into madness was much preferable to another round of well-meaning sponsors and encouraging metal coins. 

"Did you hear me? It's been a long time since I've seen you in a suit and tie. Impressive, but I wish you'd spend the extra on bespoke. It makes a difference, you know. It's all in the way the seams fall." Joe leaned in close, and Ryan shivered, as if he could feel Joe's breath on his neck. Perhaps he could. Perhaps that was how far down he'd fallen.

Ryan wet his lips, shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Even though there was a street _and_ a park between him and the little apartment building, he always worried that one or both of them would know they were being watched. Sometimes, he was surprised they didn't. 

It made him worry.

As if on cue, the front door opened, and the two of them stepped out. Max was laughing at something Mike was saying, her head thrown back, palms pressed flat against her stomach. Mike was grinning, smile wide and welcoming as he shut the door behind them. Stopping for breath, Max wiped a tear from her eye and looped an arm through Mike's, resting her free hand on his biceps as they descended the steps to the street.

"He's in love with the Hardys." Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan could see Joe shaking his head. "If it isn't one, it's another."

"He'll love her even if she hurts him. Even if she leaves him. He'll love her faithfully until you come back." Joe snorted. "Puppies are like that. Loyal to their original owners, even if those owners beat them. Even if they break them." He raised an eyebrow at Ryan's expression. "Oh, come now, Ryan. You know that. He was yours even as he barked at you. Even as he growled and tugged at the leash. He'll never be free of you." Joe turned to look at Mike and Max, already halfway up the block and disappearing fast. "He never wanted to be free of you."

Mike stopped suddenly, glancing back at the green space between them, and Ryan felt his whole body tense. Did he know? Had he seen Ryan in the corner of his eye, like Ryan did Joe? Did Mike know he was here, watching?

Automatically, Ryan stepped back into the shadow of an oak. He shouldn't have come. It was only a matter of time before they caught him out, found out he wasn't as dead as he should be, and what then? It was dangerous enough for them when the world thought he was gone.

"All you have to do is call out to him. Go on. Call his name. He'll come running."

Ryan growled, low and soft. "That's enough, Joe. Leave him alone."

Joe chuckled. "Who is that warning really for, Ryan? You or me?"

Frowning, Ryan shook his head. The car was waiting, and beyond that, a party hosted by a man he'd never met, its entrance to be shortly breached by an invitation that wasn't his until he stole it. 

Front desks and doormen should never be entrusted with a man's mail. 

On the sidewalk, Mike leaned in to whisper some secret in Max's ear. Max gave Mike's shoulder a gentle shove, and the two of them laughed as Mike bent down to tie his shoelace a little tighter.

***

"You must tell me where you washed up. Sleeping rough, no credit cards, no bank accounts... How does a dead man manage a clean suit and a town car?"

"Goodwill." Ryan fiddled with a cufflink, smart silver bars that paled in comparison to the memory of the little brass-and-steel handcuff-shaped cufflinks Max had given to him as a joke gift on his birthday a thousand years ago. 

"Sorry, sir?" His chauffeur's eyes were on him, reflected in the rearview mirror. 

Ryan shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing at all." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his ghost, caught in glass, shake its head in tandem. Just his ghost, he reminded himself. There was no one else in the back of the car.

"Goodwill." Joe snorted, shifting his shoulders to settle more comfortably against the leather of the seats. "Next you'll be telling me that petrol station toilets have hot towels and a barber on hand."

Ryan frowned. It seemed to be the default state of his face these days: low grade disapproval. Joe seemed especially comfortable beside him, still dressed in that same soft sweater and jeans that whispered, _Touch, touch, touch_. Ryan curled his fingers into his palms, jamming them down into the seats. There was something about it all, something about the fact that his own goddamn hallucination wouldn't even put in the effort to put on a suit while following him to some rich bastard's over-extravagant party that infuriated him on an instinctual level. His own mind was a goddamn traitor, serving up the exact thing he didn't want and couldn't live without.

Gliding to a stop, the car pulled up outside of Ryan's destination. In what seemed like the space of half a breath, the chauffeur was out on the street and opening the door. "Thank you," Ryan murmured, sliding out.

"Sir."

Idly, he wondered if Joe would need the car door held open as well, or if hallucinations like his couldn't be stopped by mere steel.

The part of him that had learned something from Professor Carroll, way back when he thought Joe's monstrosity was contained to the pages of a disappointingly bad book, spontaneously offered up _Cold iron_. Caught off guard, he smothered an unexpected bubble of laughter and resolved to look for a fireplace poker inside. If he couldn't wish Joe away, perhaps he could bludgeon his own personal hobgoblin into submission.

***

"I never liked these kind of parties. Always such a bore. Nothing but fatuous conversations with empty-headed hedge fund managers awaiting a host who has made himself liege lord for an evening."

Ryan sipped his drink, hiding a smile. Champagne, the type that fizzed pleasantly as it slipped past the lips, leaving a sweetly dry flavour as it slid down the throat. Absolutely nothing like the box wine they broke out at FBI gatherings, and definitely not even in the same league as the cheap beers forever hidden behind abandoned lunches in the communal fridge. "Not even your own parties?"

It was surprisingly entertaining needling Joe. His chest puffed up and he stood a little straighter, as if he could shrug off any offence simply by making himself bigger. Ryan could no longer remember if he had ever truly caught Joe off-guard, but imagining cracks in his doppelganger's facadé was a small pleasure after he'd had so many stripped from him.

"I never threw parties. I hosted _events_." Joe's eyebrows rose as he surveyed the room. "It's all the same. Fundraisers for your Department or your pet cause. Soirées to show off a new sculpture, a new trophy, a new wife. _Book_ launches." He spat the last one. "Nobody does anything with style anymore. No respect for theatre."

"I remember your theatre." Ryan set his glass down on the sideboard that was holding him up and pushed himself upright. "I wish I didn't."

It had been nearly two hours now, and Ryan hadn't seen so much as a whisper of Eliza, or the host himself. It felt like wasted time, all the brief and empty conversations with other guests, the overly fussy hors d'oeuvres washed down with drinks too fine for his palate, the polished woods and warm colours of every available space. Yet each tick of the towering grandfather clock was another second in which he watched and waited, mapping the floor plan in his mind until he had a reasonable sense of what doors might lead him to valuable secrets.

If he took a wrong turn on the way to the restroom, he could easily steal into what promised to be a study. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket, fingering the lockpick laid against the seam. Most of the guests had downed enough of the free-flowing alcohol that they would hardly notice anything other than the glint of their companions' diamond earrings and the shine of their teeth as they talked. It was like being surrounded by a pack of drunk and chattering squirrels: easily distracted, with hardly any focus, even while sober. 

Crossing the room was nothing: a dip in a sea of sequins and tie clips. Stepping into the hall, he made the required feint, doing his best to look lost, like he'd done nothing more than choose the wrong route, and after a quick check for cameras and passers-by, he and his pick breached the lock on the study door.

It was dark inside, more wood panelling and deep colours, heavy draperies pulled across the only wall without bookcases. Ignoring the books, Ryan made a beeline for the desk and the neat piles of paper and ledgers that were stacked on the pristine blotter. The lamp he snapped on was soft enough to stop short of the doorway, a lucky break that would help his search stay under the radar.

"Not a bad selection of books, I suppose." Joe trailed his fingertips across their leatherbound spines, leisurely wandering around the room. "Hawthorne... Faulkner... Browning... Hardy..." He grinned at Ryan. "I do love Hardy, don't you? So much despair packed into such dense prose. And that poor Tess. No one could save her, even at the end, could they? Death and execution as her rewards. Bit like us, isn't it?" He cocked his head to the side. "Faithful to the last, Tess to her Angel, even with all that ugly business in between. I wonder which of us is which."

Ryan sighed, rubbing at his temple. He shouldn't have had that champagne. Familiar cravings were beginning to rise in his belly, addictions and distractions he couldn't afford when he was trying to concentrate. This was not the time to get sloppy. Not in the middle of his first fresh lead in ages.

"Ah! Poe! Perhaps this gentleman has some small taste after all."

Nothing on the desk but penthouse purchasing papers and notes for some kind of story. Ryan hadn't lingered, but what he'd glimpsed of it suggested the beginnings of a Gothic Romance. The working title, _The Isle of Night_ , however, planted it firmly on the paperback racks that still sat in the back of struggling Mom and Pop stores. Who was this man, and would his connections to Eliza be enough to give Ryan another rung on the ladder?

The desk and its virtually empty drawers exhausted, Ryan turned his attention to a set of filing cabinets near the drapes. That they were locked was a good sign. He crouched down, getting to work with his picking tools, hoping against hope that there was something useful inside.

For a long, blissful moment, all he could hear was the quiet clinking of metal on metal, the soft clicking as the simple lock gave. His breath hissed through his teeth as he stood, grasped the handle and tugged. The drawer squealed as it opened, revealing a full raft of files. Finally. Finally, he was getting somewhere.

A soft _click_ at the edge of awareness was all it took to spur Ryan to spin around, reaching for his gun. The same gun that no longer hung at his side, the weight gone, but not forgotten.

"May I help you?"

Relief flooded through Ryan. It was only Joe. Joe with his hand on the doorknob, yes. Joe with a glass of wine held between his fingers, Joe no longer loitering his jeans and sweater, Joe just _fucking_ with him, because that was what he did...

Ryan frowned. "You're wearing a suit."

"One does that, at parties." Joe nodded at Ryan's own clothes even as a flicker of surprise surfaced and faded from his eyes. "So are you. Or did you forget that, in the race to the grave?" He grinned. "I beat you there. And it seems I've beaten you on the way back." He set his glass on the nearest bookcase shelf and smiled as he half-turned, locking the door behind him. "I've missed you. You must have missed me."

The handful of steps between Ryan and Joe were far too few. As Joe crossed the study, Ryan jerked back, heedless of the filing cabinet that bumped and creaked at his back. He held his breath as Joe stopped in front of him, flinched as Joe raised a hand to his face. This was ridiculous. This was something new, some new game his mind had decided to play on him, some new torture to distract him from his task. If he closed his eyes tightly, held on for another moment, Joe would be back at the bookshelves, back amongst dusty tomes, slotted carefully and properly on his shelf in Ryan's head.

Joe's fingers were warm and callused, his touch careful, as if he were reading a page of braille. In all the months since the execution, since that first night at the bar, Joe had never touched him. Ryan had tried, of course. Tried and tried again, tried to grasp for and hold onto the man who had told him too many truths among all his lies, who had been painfully right when he said they were two sides of the same coin, soulmates, indivisible. But Joe had always been just out of reach, just a few inches too far for him to touch, a few breaths too removed to mingle scents outside of memory. He'd died when Joe died, and now here, in this room...

"You're... you're alive."

Joe smiled. "Yes. Like any good ghost, death was never going to stop me."

"Eliza?" It had to be. It was all starting to make sense. The itch in the back of his brain that as righteous as it had been, Joe's execution never quite sat _right_. The sudden rise of a nameless businessman with all the right connections, fitting neatly in all the right holes, slipping sideways into Eliza's organization. The study's walls, filled with books, all classics, all leather, all pretentious as fuck. Christ, even the obviously terrible outline for some godawful novel on the desk; that alone should have been a tipoff.

Joe frowned, his expression all impatience, the quirk of his eyebrow the height of disappointment. "I see you're still stubbornly without poetry in your soul." He sighed. "Of course Eliza. Apparently, the mysterious men who give her marching orders still see some use in me. Her friends brought me back after my unfortunate demise. I can't say it was pleasant, but all rebirths require a little blood and thunder, don't they?"

He should hit Joe. He should break his nose, push the bone shards up into his brain. He should choke him, or beat him, or break Joe's teeth on his knuckles, stop Joe's heart himself so he could know it was done, know it deep down in his bones, know it well enough to finally give his own body permission to lie down and die.

He could smell Joe's cologne. _Really_ smell it, not just remember. It was something new, something expensive. Something Eliza's group were bankrolling, no doubt, just like every scrap of furniture or fabric in this whole goddamn place.

"Did you miss me?"

He should hit him. He made a fist, thumb properly tucked outside of his fingers, raised it...

...and reached for Joe's hair. Short as it was, it was enough to grip, enough to hold, enough to jerk forward as he leaned in and kissed Joe, bruisingly, brutally hard.

He tasted of blood and broken promises, meat and murder. He tasted of all the ashen words that had tumbled over his teeth, all the dead and dying he left in his wake. He tasted of misery and loss and all the parts of Ryan that had withered and weakened. The taste of it all flooded Ryan's mouth, closing his throat, and yet he could do nothing but drink deeper and deeper draughts, caught up in the desire to possess, to hold, to have back that part of himself that he saw convulse and expire on a gurney, well beyond his ability to stop from slipping away. He could feel Joe's hands on him, drawing him closer, not pushing him away, and he wrapped his free arm around Joe's waist, yanking him in tight.

He was breathing heavily when he finally drew back from Joe, chest heaving, fingers cramping from clutching at Joe too hard. Silently, he was pleased to see Joe in a similar state, the familiar calm more than a little bit ruffled. 

The smirk, on the other hand, was less than pleasing. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Shut up." Ryan unwound his arm and shoved Joe towards the desk. "Bend over, and keep your mouth shut."

Joe chuckled as he stepped up to the blotter, shifting the chair out of the way and moving the paper Ryan had so recently rifled through to the side. Next, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, and tossed it over the back of the chair. "How romantic. Ever the Byronic hero, aren't you? Moody and miserable and prone to overwhelming passions. I'm surprised my trousers haven't dropped all on their own." He grinned at Ryan as he undid his belt, sliding it free of the trouser loops and letting it fall to the floor. 

Ryan swallowed. One step towards the desk, another away, his better angels warring with the demons of his desires. His fingers itched, flexing and unflexing, as he paced back and forth. _Two sides of the same coin._ What was a coin without its flipside? 

It was the hiss of Joe's zipper that stopped the pacing. He'd spent all these many months wrapped up in his own head, talking to no one but the _other_ Joe. Maybe it was time to let all that go. Maybe it was time to take what he wanted, and worry about what came after _after_. He moved around the desk, kicking the chair a little further to give himself more room. Reaching out, he rested his hands on Joe's hips, curling his fingers until the tips pressed firmly into Joe's sides. He hesitated, then leaned in, nuzzled the nape of Joe's neck, smelling his skin. 

It was so strange to be this close. So strange to be able to touch.

"Check the bottom drawer on the right-hand side." Joe rested his hands palms-down on the desktop, but hadn't even begun to bend over. "There's something we'll need inside."

Searching his most recent memories, Ryan didn't recall seeing anything... _Oh_.

A moment later, he had a bottle of aloe vera gel in hand. "I didn't realize you'd need special handling."

Joe chuckled softly and pushed the waistband of his trousers over his hips. "And I didn't know you to be _unnecessarily_ cruel." The slight emphasis on 'unnecessarily' sent a shiver up Ryan's spine. It would take more focus than he had in himself right now to figure out whether it was a frisson of dread or anticipation. "Regardless, I thought it would ease the way; after all, you're going to want this more than once." Ryan could hear the amusement in Joe's voice. "We've been separated from one another for far too long."

Ryan groaned. He was sure there was a point of no return, somewhere where he crossed over from Joe's pursuer to his disciple, but he'd lost sight of that line somewhere along the way. If Joe was to be believed, Ryan had lost his soul to Joe long ago.

If every moment after Joe's execution counted for anything, it was proof enough that Ryan had left _something_ with Joe. Something essential. Something important. Something he had no memory of possessing anymore. He'd laid what he was down at this man's feet, and now he was well beyond knowing who he was without Joe.

And here they were now, both dead, both alive, and every nerve-ending in Ryan's body was screaming out to finally _touch, touch, touch_.

He yanked at Joe's shirt, pulling the trailing tails fully out of his trousers. Impatience was rapidly winning out, and it was impatience that tugged too hard at Joe's tie, loosening it from his throat only to pull the knot tight, a makeshift garotte hanging halfway down Joe's chest.

He ignored the soft, tumbling laughter that came when he shoved Joe's underwear down his legs, bunching them up in a tangled mess with the trousers Joe had so neatly slid down his thighs. He ignored the half-caught breath that came as he ground his still-clothed cock against Joe's ass. And he ignored the quiet groan as he shrugged out of his own clothes, tossing them aside as he pushed up Joe's shirt, baring his back and pressing against him. 

What he couldn't ignore were the quiet approving noises Joe made each time Ryan stroked a fingertip over an inch of his skin. The gently coaxing 'mm's and appreciative gasps were nothing like what he wanted to tumble from Joe's mouth. He crouched, feeling blindly around on the floor until he found what he wanted and stood back up.

"Give me your hands."

"What?" Joe laughed. "You need me to hold your hands, now? Come now, Ryan, we both know this isn't your first time with a man. Has it been that long? You need someone to soothe your fears?" 

Leaning over, Ryan reached for Joe's wrist, wrapping his fingers tightly around it. There was deep satisfaction in the startled grunt that fell from Joe's lips as he yanked it backward and forced Joe's arm up the small of his back. Holding it firmly, he reached for Joe's still-free hand, pulling it back with the same force. Joe's chest hit the desktop with a satisfying _thump_.

Breathlessly, Joe groaned, "Is that it? Am I under arrest?"

The belt was easy to loop around Joe's wrists, easier still to draw tight. This time, the too-tight tug was deliberate, and Ryan smiled mirthlessly as he watched the edges of the belt bite into Joe's skin. He kept one hand on Joe's wrists, a quiet reminder of who was taking charge, as he popped open the aloe vera and awkwardly squeezed a little out onto his fingers.

"Yeah. Sure. I'm arresting a dead man." A half-second of hesitation was all it took before Ryan opted to skip any preparatory steps. Joe thrived on the pain of others; he could manage a little discomfort as Ryan took pleasure from him. He kicked Joe's legs a little wider, eliciting another grunt as he leaned more heavily against the desk. 

The first press in was pure pleasure. He slid into Joe like a key in a lock, fitting perfectly in place. He didn't stop until he was seated deep, buried to the hilt in Joe's ass. 

For one deliriously long moment, Ryan paused there, still and silent, savouring the tight heat around his cock. He moaned softly, winding his fingers around the trailing tail of the belt, and sliding his other hand up to card through Joe's hair. The strands were thick and soft as they slid across the pads of his fingers, tangled around the length of each one. He could feel Joe beneath him, each muscle tense and trembling, each sinew stretched and taut. 

And finally, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he gripped Joe's hair tight, jerking his head back, relishing his soft, pained cry. Ryan took his time sliding backward, slipping almost entirely out. He hesitated there, smiling as Joe shifted, pressing back against Ryan's cock. 

One hard, brutal thrust and Ryan began moving, setting a pace meant to punish. Each press in, he tugged harder on Joe's hair, riding him like he might break a horse. 

Before long, they were both panting, both sweating, both cursing under their breaths. Ryan couldn't remember the last time he'd been this hard; watching his cock plunge over and over into Joe was beyond obscene, and he was enjoying every moment of it.

It had only taken a few thrusts before Joe was shuddering, shifting, squirming and bucking against him. A few more, and he was biting his lip to muffle each new moan. Ryan leaned close to watch Joe's throat work, to smile at the way he'd stopped up the constant stream of words, and he was overcome with the desire to see Joe's mouth wrapped around his cock. With that image behind his eyes, his thrusts became shorter, sharper, a concerted effort to bury himself as deeply as Joe could stand.

"If I'd known this was how you planned to read me my rights, I would have endeavoured to be arrested far more often." Ryan didn't miss the catch in Joe's voice. 

Joe shuddered under him, tightening around him. He was _so_ tight, and _so_ willing, for a long moment, Ryan worried he'd slipped back into figments and fantasy. 

And then Joe murmured, "Touch me."

"What?" Startled into stillness, Ryan's hips stopped moving, his hand relaxing in Joe's hair.

"Touch me," he said. "I need you to touch me." Joe pressed his hips backward, raising them from the desk.

Ryan licked his lips. The room felt suddenly cold, goosebumps rising on his arms. It wasn't as if he wasn't aware that he _was_ touching Joe, right now, in fact, but to have the invitation out in the air like that? Made real in a way all the untouchable hallucinations could not?

 _No_. It was a bridge too far, the difference between having something and being had by it. 

Ryan swallowed, and began to pull away. A few bottles of cheap vodka, and he would never have to think of this night again. There were other paths to Eliza, other ways to get his revenge...

...and then Joe said it again.

"Please, Ryan. _Touch_ me."

Something broke in Ryan, something fragile and needing to be needed, some last cracked dam shored up against a flood. He covered Joe's body with his own, letting go of the belt and Joe's hair, and slipped one hand between the two of them. 

Joe's cock was hot and heavy in his hand, and as he curled his fingers around it, he was sure he could feel the thrumming of Joe's blood just below the surface. He thrust into Joe again, over and over, punishment taken over by desperation, by the need to have the two of them mingle, not two sides of a coin, but two rivers flowing into one sea.

He felt Joe's cock twitch a moment before Joe gripped him tight, barely muffling a shout against the desktop. His hips snapped forward, pressing deep, and he swallowed down his own cry as his whole body shuddered, convulsing as he came. 

A spatter of wetness and a soft sigh was all he needed to know that Joe hadn't been far behind.

They laid there for a long time, stacked one on top the other like firewood, until Ryan groaned and rolled off. Joe's hands, still bound behind his back, were a disturbing shade of pale, and Ryan felt a little twinge of remorse as he undid the belt and heard Joe hiss. Pins and needles, a gift he'd managed to pass along. 

It took a moment to gain his balance, but Ryan navigated the few steps it took to get to the desk chair, sitting down heavily. His head buzzed. He felt tipsy, comfortable in that warm, welcoming space where the world is slightly out of focus, soft and malleable and inviting.

He watched as Joe slowly pushed himself up from the desk, finding his feet, smoothing his hair. He sighed a little as Joe pulled up his underwear, then his trousers, and tucked in his shirt. He'd enjoyed breaking Joe into little pieces, and it was disheartening to watch him put himself together again so easily. Still, there was pleasure in knowing it was possible, and satisfaction in knowing it wouldn't be long before he could break Joe again.

"You'll have to move." Joe tugged on his jacket, half-trapped beneath Ryan's back. Ryan shifted enough to free it, then flopped back into the chair. 

"I should arrest you." Ryan wet his lips as Joe straightened his tie: nimble fingers loosening the knot, straightening and settling it in place as if Ryan had never fucked it up.

"Are you even capable of doing so?" Joe met Ryan's gaze with amused eyes. "Don't you have to be officially alive and employed to be able to arrest someone?" He laughed softly. "Or perhaps you'll make a citizen's arrest."

Ryan frowned. 

"Of course, if you did that, you wouldn't be able to pursue a certain woman." Joe smiled, reaching out to brush his fingers through Ryan's hair. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, until Joe curled his fingers and tugged. 

Ryan's eyes teared up, and he reached for Joe's wrist. Joe slapped his hands away, and leaned in close. "It's about time you learned that _my_ goals are _your_ goals, Ryan. And we both know I'm not comfortable with being a kept man. What I want is what you want. And it won't be long until Eliza wishes she'd let me die in that ignominious place." He shook Ryan's head once, then let go. Ryan gasped as the pain receded, more pins and needles to add to his account. 

"Clean yourself up." Joe slapped Ryan's shoulder, a not-so-gentle encouragement to get up. "You'll have to be the Watson to my Holmes. We have much work to do, and I promise, none of it will be pretty." His eyes glittered in the low light, a tyger lurking in the darkness. 

Ryan should be afraid. He should feel regret, or remorse, or resistance. He should be wary of Joe's eyes and hands, his heart and mind; he should rightly fear the end that came to all men who tangled with a tyger's claws.

But instead, all he could feel was relief.

Instead, he found himself made whole.

***

_The spirits of the dead who stood  
In life before thee are again  
In death around thee--and their will  
Shall overshadow thee: be still._

\- Edgar Allan Poe, "Spirits of the Dead."


End file.
